


running away from you (is like running on treadmills)

by dailuzo



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 17:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1313305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dailuzo/pseuds/dailuzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kris acts and Luhan responds, but neither of them really know what to expect from each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	running away from you (is like running on treadmills)

Years ago, back when Luhan was still obsessed with toy cars and constantly caused grief to his mother every time he came back muddied and dirtied from a soccer evening out, he punched an older boy twice his size square on the face.

His ego has long since mellowed out and he likes to think he’s more wise and matured now, being a full-grown adult and all, but even till this day he remembers that the jerk had it coming. And that’s kind of ridiculous because for the life of him Luhan can’t remember the kid’s face, nor can he recall the geeky neighbor he supposedly shielded from the whirlwind of insults hurled her way. All he remembers is skin pressed hard against his knuckles, satisfaction rimming in his heart when the other let out a pained grunt, pride as it dawned on him just how much his (foolish) actions had benefited someone that day.

Guilt came last, almost like an afterthought. Except when it intruded it chased out all the other emotions that came before, and by the time the exhilaration had worn off Luhan was in cold sweat, fretting over how his parents would react, his stringent father so obsessed with perfection, who had the ability to stare him down with a disappointment so fierce he’s reduced to nothing.

His worrying led him to fumble around with his words; frozen, tongue-tied and defenseless, and when his mother arrived in the principal’s office he was stuck with the bruises and the blame, clinging to whatever that was left of his pride like his life depended on it.

His mother said nothing. Brought him home, sat him on a chair and held a wet cloth against his face to reduce the swelling. She never asked for the reason.

“You reckless, reckless boy,” she said instead, softly, kindly, as she dabbed the cloth at the corner of his lips.

She didn’t shout at him. He doesn’t think she ever did. It was all horribly confusing.

He kind of feels the same way he did then as he looks out the window of his apartment on a Monday afternoon, arms propped up against the sill, on the phone with the owner of a number he’s never saved in his phone but can recite perfectly from memory.

“Luhan?” Kris had said immediately after he picked up, forgoing greetings because Luhan never calls without good reason.

It was hard to explain, so he didn’t. Just said, blankly, “I quit my job.”

And now they’re here, Luhan making deliberate efforts not to press the phone too hard against his ear, acting like he doesn’t care what Kris might think. It’s bullshit.

“Oh,” is Kris’ grand reply after moments of silence. Luhan can almost see him creasing his brows, eyes darting from left to right as if he’ll find the correct thing to say if he searches hard enough. “Are you okay?”

Luhan doesn’t reply, watches cars trailing slowly after each other on the road outside, stuck in afternoon traffic, before stating, “I’ve always hated working there.” He doesn’t really owe Kris an explanation, but gives it anyway. Guilt is a wretched feeling.

“I know,” Kris says. “Are you staying over at Yixing’s?”

Fact #1: Luhan doesn’t like to be coddled, but during those moments when he needs someone to fall back on and reassure him that everything’s okay, Yixing becomes an exception.

Fact #2: Kris has long been in that category too, falls under a lot more exceptions than Luhan has ever afforded Yixing, but Kris has never tried and Luhan doesn’t bother to tell, so they’re always stuck here, with Kris shipping him off to Yixing’s whenever things get slightly uncomfortable.

“I don’t know.” Luhan pauses, gives him a chance to change his mind. It’s an opportunity he never takes.

“Okay,” Kris tells him.

“Okay,” Luhan says back, and hangs up.

He kind of wishes Kris had blown up on him.  
  
  
  
  
  
Zhang Yixing doesn’t like beating around the bush.

“Awfully convenient time for you to give your twenty-four hours notice,” he comments offhandedly, strumming random chords on his guitar before writing something down on the notebook he has on the stand in front of him.

“I hated the job.” Maybe if he repeats it often enough people will finally start buying his excuse.

Yixing stares at him long and hard. It stops Luhan from shoving noodles into his own mouth.

“What? Are you angry that I stole your ramyeon?”

“You make me depressed,” he says finally.

“You’re always depressed,” Luhan points out.

“More depressed, then.”

Yixing ends up writing a song on denial, and how it’s the saddest thing that’s happened to the world since the Great Recession. The lyrics are crap but the melody is promising. Luhan tells him to work on it again if he ever decides to stop acting like a jackass. Yixing, in turn, tells him to stop being stupid.  
  
  
  
  
  
The thing about Kris is that he never reacts the way Luhan wants him to.

It’s been this way from the very start: Luhan insisting that _this means nothing, it’s just a casual fling_ and Kris nodding and agreeing and saying he understands but proceeding to contradict himself by stealing Luhan’s phone number while he’s asleep and sending dull and pointless messages like _good morning_ and _good night_.

‘ _stop fucking with me_ ,’ he replies finally, after the third week of receiving messages he’s long since stopped deleting.

‘ _good night_ ,’ is what he gets back, and it leads to Luhan fisting his hair in frustration.

It also leads to him attacking Kris’ mouth the next time they meet, tugging and pulling and biting every inch of exposed skin, the door of the bathroom stall locked securely behind them. Luhan is heat and desperation and need, and to him it’s more about the fulfillment and less about the intimacy, so he’s frustrated when Kris pries Luhan’s hands off his own skin and begins to kiss him again, long and deep, a stray hand running through his hair.

“Seriously?” Luhan whispers, breathless, and yeah he’s noticed that Kris has a penchant for intimate contact the first time around but he always thought that it was more to do with the mood--dinner, wine, a proper bed--than a preference.

Kris pulls Luhan’s hands close to his face in response, tracing the latter’s knuckles with his lips. And Luhan has done worse, a lot worse, but thisstill brings a flush to his cheeks, so he violently wrenches his hands away.

“Don’t do that,” he says, and Kris quirks an eyebrow and appears like he understands what Luhan is getting at, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do it again.

“It’s not so bad,” Kris tells him, and it would have been convincing if he hadn’t gone on and added a hesitant “... is it?” less than two seconds later.

Kris is persistent with his texts, however generic they are, and after a while Luhan chips in statements of his own: _you sleep really late_ , or _do you type these out everyday or is there a way to send them out automatically_?

It takes forever for the former to reply, sometimes even hours, but they’ll all arrive eventually. For things that supposedly takes him a long time to compose, though, the answers are irritatingly curt ( _yeah_ for the first and _typed them out_ for the other). And it really shouldn’t matter but it drives Luhan up the wall all the same.

This is all getting way out of hand.

Fuck that.

The next time Kris asks if he’s free for dinner, Luhan texts him his home address.  
  
  
  
  
  
They say tough love is the best teacher for kids.

Luhan had none of that. His father might have attempted to use it on him, maybe, but he was around so rarely that it barely even made a difference. His mother, on the other hand, is kind and patient. Luhan might come home with the worst grades and spend too much time on soccer than what is deemed to be socially acceptable, and yet the only thing she does is shake her head and give him one of her small, secretive smiles.

 _Why are you never angry?_ he wants to scream, but never does. Indulges instead on the acceptance that she hands out so freely, a safety net to fall on when the world gets a little bit scary.

The disquietude must have shown on his face, though, because she has this habit of ruffling his hair and planting kisses on both sides of his cheeks.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” she’ll say, like a promise, and Luhan would blink and nod and convinces himself the day will come. That he’ll understand one day, when it matters most.

He still doesn’t, and the tenderness Kris treats him with is as much terrifying as it is comforting. It makes him a little selfish, a little stubborn, and Luhan can’t say he was the most agreeable boy all those years back but he can’t be as bad as he is now, taking and taking but never really giving back.

There are traces of Luhan all over Kris’ apartment: the extra toothbrush that’s more worn than the one he keeps above his own sink, the multitudes of cliche movies littered on his shelf that Kris couldn’t care less about, dinnerwares that exist in sets in a living space clearly meant for one. There’s a clear distinction drawn when it comes to Kris, a Before and an After in his life he accepts in stride.

Luhan is different. Dinner for two means disposable containers. Leftover clothing articles means he’ll haul them over the next time he ends up at the other’s. His space is still very much his own. His room is still empty. One day Kris is going to clasp his fingers around Luhan’s wrist, frustrated and annoyed and finally _finally_ angry, and he’ll demand for an explanation.

He’s still waiting for it to happen.  
  
  
  
  
  
The closest he ever comes to a confession is: “Okay, maybe this can be a thing.”

“Yeah?” Kris says, casually, but his eyes are bright and he’s looking at Luhan with so much hope that he just has to turn away.

“What else could it be?” Luhan asks, perhaps, because he’s been wondering. Because Luhan might be slow when it comes to putting labels, but that doesn’t mean everyone else acts the same.

Kris shrugs, looks away, eyes trained on a movie neither of them are watching. It’s spring but the cold is still unbearable so they’ve spread a blanket over them on the sofa. Underneath it, Kris rests his hand above Luhan’s, filling the gaps between the latter’s fingers with his own. It’s a distracted gesture. Thoughtless. A reflex. Luhan melts into it.

“What am I to you?” he tries again, because he wants to know, _has_ to know what he’s getting himself into.

Kris’ hold on him tightens.

“Important.”

It lacks a label, lacks Luhan’s need to compartmentalize the people in his life under different categories, to act in accordance to what they expect. China. Korea. Friends. Acquaintances. Family. Something less? Something more? Something a little bit in between? Kris’ thoughts processes are always so maddeningly simple and easy it’s almost frightening.

He wonders if Kris will return the question. He doesn’t.  
  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t, but he might as well have when he pushes the laptop in front of Luhan’s face.

It’s an advertisement, a 2-bedroom apartment somewhere in Hongdae, and though the place is a marked improvement from the box Kris is currently taking residence in, it’s not exactly a place he can afford to rent on his salary alone.

Luhan looks up, confused.

Mornings are usually harsh on both of them but he doesn’t remember ever seeing Kris more awake than he is now, eyes boring into Luhan’s own, jaws clenched and expression pensive, an unspoken question on his lips. Luhan’s head starts to throb. He feels sick.

“Okay,” he somehow croaks out, even though it’s anything but okay. And Kris is looking at him like he doubts every single word that’ll come out of his mouth but is too happy to do anything about it, so he simply settles for a curt nod. Packs his laptop and moves on with his routine like any other day.

Luhan stays glued to his seat hours after Kris had stood behind him, squeezed his shoulder and informed that he was going off to work, pauses and stares at anything and everything, from the overflowing laundry basket he likes to nag about placed haphazardly outside the bedroom door to the lopsided sofa Kris adores, even though it creaks and looks like it’ll give out any minute.

That day, he calls in sick.

A week later, he quits.  
  
  
  
  
  
At one point, not long after they’ve moved on from hotel room affairs to creeping onto each other’s living spaces, Kris is in the middle of caressing every inch of Luhan’s skin with his lips when he says, seemingly out of nowhere, “Tell me more about you.”

“What?”

He should have known better than to be taken aback, should have known better than to expect anything less because it’s not like this is the first time Kris decides to become a master of inappropriate timing, attempting to tear down his walls every time Luhan gets his guard down and lets him wander too close.

He shouldn’t be surprised, but he still is anyway. Because the fact that Kris still tries even after his numerous attempts to throw him off--none too gently, not at all--kind of amazes him.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he replies, frowning lightly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“There’s always something to tell.” Kris peppers his neck with kisses, as if to coax him, appease him, “You just need to share.”

It doesn’t work. Luhan kicks him off the bed and doesn’t let him crawl back under his sheets until after he’s asleep, and even then he makes sure to take up any remaining space left. He wakes up the next morning to see Kris all frowny, eyes puffed and tired, half his limbs on the bed and the other half touching the floor. He’s a little sorry, but then like the loser he is Kris goes and ruins everything.

“I love my job but I’m mostly in it for the money,” he mumbles, still awake but only barely. “What about you?”

“Oh my god,” Luhan groans, dumping his face into a pillow, “you’re such a persistent piece of shit.”

His insults falls on deaf ears. “What about you?” Kris repeats, as though Luhan hadn’t uttered a word. He receives a glare in return.

“I hate my job,” Luhan says after a while, because Kris is halfway gone anyways and it’s doubtful he’ll be able to remember, “But money doesn’t grow on trees.”

“Okay.” A pause. “My stuffed alpaca has a name.”

“That’s not a secret,” Luhan snorts. “It’s Ace. You mumble it in your sleep sometimes.”

If Kris is more awake maybe he’d have the decency to look more embarrassed. As it is now, he just pauses again, sleepily tilts his head to the side, as if in thought. His hair is all over the place. Luhan brings a palm to the other’s forehead and pushes his hair back. Kris barely reacts.

“My mom’s in China. Kept telling her to move here but she doesn’t want to leave home,” he drawls. “Dad’s gone. Has been for a while now.”

Gone means a lot of things. He could be dead. He could have left. Luhan doesn’t pry.

“My family’s gone too,” he says instead, voice soft.

The look Kris gives him in response makes him think that the former is still frightfully awake, terrifyingly _aware_ , and it isn’t until Kris gives him a hesitant grin that he calms down, when Kris catches his wrist, keeps it firmly in his hold and doesn’t let go.

“Lucky you have me then.” It’s said lightly, like it’s trivial, because even in a state of not being all there Kris is still unsure of where he stands and Luhan isn’t great at making that clear.

And when Kris’ grip slackens and he falls into a deep slumber, chest rising and descending rhythmically with each breath of air he takes in, Luhan lies back down beside him, hand hovering over Kris’ face almost in wonder before he stops, closes his eyes and just listens to the sound of him breathing.  
  
  
  
  
  
Kris, Luhan discovers, never needs elaborate gestures.  
  
It doesn’t matter that Luhan is a walking contradiction, doesn’t matter that he never saves Kris’ number on his phone or cleanses his apartment of the latter’s belongings whenever he gets a chance to. What matters is the fact that they wake up in the same bed nearly every day, that Kris can fold his arm around Luhan’s waist and pull him closer towards himself on a lazy weekend and Luhan wouldn’t flinch, would groan and grumble and even bite, perhaps, but never push him away.  
  
Problem? Luhan _wants_ him to care. Maybe he actually wants Kris to throw a tantrum when he does something out of line, for Kris to lash out whenever Luhan puts a dent in their plans for no other reason than to protect his own hide.  
  
Because that’s exactly what Luhan is: just completely and utterly _selfish_.  
  
And the truth is, he didn’t quit because he hated his job or because the idea of cohabitation frightens him. Rather, it has everything to do with Luhan attempting to get under Kris’ skin to get a response--any response--that doesn’t include Kris pushing the issue under the rug.

Fact #3: the moment Luhan voices out his intention to study in Korea--a thought he entertains every time he plays Dong Bang Shin Ki on his iPod, singing along to words that mean absolutely nothing in his ears--he fully expects the blow his father lands across his face. What he doesn’t expect is for his mother to gaze at him with pursed lips and cold eyes, the warm smile he’s so familiar with completely absent from her face.

Acceptance is never completely unconditional. Not even from someone like his mother, who had brushed off every single one of his flaws so fluidly before.

“You’re too old for these kinds of nonsense.”

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? All the defects she overlooked are things Luhan is supposed to learn to grow out of. He’s an adult now, a rational level-headed grown-up, expected to know which dreams he should chase and which one he should leave behind.

Except he doesn’t know, not really, and he sure as hell still doesn’t understand.

Fact #4: Luhan is reckless. He still is, even after reality knocks him down and tells him again and again that he’s not good enough, even after the world moves him away from the stage and sticks him into an eight-to-five office job. Sometimes he’ll still have the urge to pack his bags and go for a random trip alone to some remote part of the country for the weekend. Sometimes he’ll want to forget that he’s not eighteen anymore, that he’s no longer a kid with a dream that he can afford to chase with a blind fervor between classes. There are jobs he needs to return to, responsibilities he needs to own up to.

But it’s always Kris he wants to find greeting him when he gets back. Always Kris that’ll take him into his arms and gently unwind him, soft, tender, as if Luhan is so fucking precious. And everytime he does Luhan is left breathless and awed, and maybe things didn’t work out the way he planned it to but this really isn’t that bad.

If this is a phase it’s likely a phase he’ll never grow out of, because when he’s not too busy being a realist and rationalizing his thoughts, he can kind of imagine it being Kris forever.

And Luhan wants him to be angry to know if there are expectations Kris wants him to live up to, if the tolerance he shows all this while is only there because he expects Luhan to change one day once he stops being so flighty.

But more than anything, even after those expectations are shattered and Kris stops looking at him through rose-tinted glasses, Luhan wants to know if he’ll care enough to stay.  
  
  
  
  
  
There’s an arm snaking around his waist, warmth settling in behind his body. Luhan cracks an eye open. The digital clock on the bedside table screams 03:00 in bright red.

“You’re back late,” he says, hoarse, voice laden with sleep.

“I went to Yixing’s,” comes the reply.

“Really?” Luhan laughs. Kris’ fingers laces around his. He lets them. “The whole night?”

“No.” A pause. Hesitant. “You weren’t there, so I went over to your place and waited. I thought for sure…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Luhan understands. Kris knows him well to figure out that he’ll draw the most comfort from home, but not well enough to deduce which one he’ll settle on.

“You should sleep,” Luhan tells him.

“I’m sorry,” Kris says instead, settling his forehead to the back of Luhan’s neck, voice so soft it almost goes unheard. “I never meant to put you on the spot.” There’s a laugh, self-deprecating. “Hell, half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

Luhan freezes, chest tightening.

He’s selfish, so sometimes he forgets that between the two of them, Luhan isn’t the only one struggling with unknowns. Somewhere behind the outward confidence and the vehement persistence Kris assaults him with, there’s a hand that still trembles whenever Luhan touches back, eyes that gazes at him in amazement every time he walks through the front door, as if Kris can’t quite believe he’s still there.

It must have been hard, tiptoeing around him for so long, always being afraid that he’ll say something that might trigger a ticking time bomb. Kris makes a decision and it’s nearly always wrong, always a near miss, there but not exactly, and every single time he’ll blink and look at Luhan like he’s expecting him to leave.

Maybe a little like how Luhan wakes up everyday bracing himself for an empty bed.

It’s then that it hits him that being unsure--like a bunch of other things that happened in his life--isn’t that much of a bad thing. Because Luhan might be more confused than anything but Kris is just equally clueless, meddling and poking and trying until he learns to hit the right notes. Because by some miracle, Kris thinks that Luhan does the right things without even trying, and if Kris had actually gone up and left Luhan would probably end up banging on Zitao’s door, demanding him to make use of his Wushu skills to beat him to death because he’s done something so so stupid.

Luhan wants _this_ , but then he goes off and ruins the whole thing by ensuring that he’ll remain financially strained for the next couple of months.

“Hell,” he mutters, “I’m jobless.”

Kris laughs, brighter and genuine this time around, and his breath tickles. “I think that’s the whole point of quitting.”

Luhan doesn’t laugh. Turns around instead, captures Kris’ face between his palms and lands a sloppy kiss on his lips. Kris stares at him, eyes wide, looking like an idiot.

“Ask me again,” Luhan says. “After I get my shit together, ask me again. This time I swear to god I’ll--”

“Okay,” Kris breaks him off, smiling so widely his face feels like breaking, “okay.”

And then he kisses him back.  
  
  
  
  



End file.
